Unexpected Visitor
by Cobrilee
Summary: Stiles is sick, and alone on Christmas Eve. Derek shows up to check in on him, and stays. Part 7 of A Very Sterek Christmas.


**A/N: Thank you to everyone who's been following along on this little series! I hope you're enjoying the fluff. :)**

"Scott, man, just go. Honest."

Scott looked at him skeptically. "I'd be the worst kind of friend ever to go to a pack Christmas party while you're sick as a dog, Stiles."

Stiles coughed roughly, turning his face into the crook of his elbow until the violent spasms passed. "That's exactly why you _should_ go," he insisted. "No one's going to have any fun hanging out with the Walking Dead, namely me, when you guys could all be partying. And even though you can't get sick, and Malia can't, and Derek can't, and Liam, and… Wait. I can't infect anyone, can I? I should totally go."

"There's still Lydia, Kira and Mason," Scott reminded him, and Stiles deflated.

"You're right. I need to stay home. I'm not dragging my friends into my miserable sickness just because you're afraid I might be lonely."

Scott tilted his head and Stiles rolled his eyes. "You're sure?"

" _Yes_ ," he said, exasperated. "Go. Have fun. Tell me wild tales of drunken debauchery tomorrow, when you're hungover and trying not to puke up your eggnog."

Scott made a face but clapped Stiles on the back. "I hope you feel better soon, buddy."

Stiles watched as Scott leaped out of his bedroom window, sighing before another wracking cough seized his lungs and he flung himself into his bed. He really didn't begrudge his friends having a chance to cut loose and relax; God knew their lives had sucked hardcore for the entire previous year. Well, for previous _years_ , honestly. They needed to have some fun. It wasn't their fault he was currently auditioning for the role of a plague-infested Game of Thrones extra.

It didn't mean it didn't suck to be alone on Christmas Eve, though.

He rolled over, staring at the ceiling while his lungs tickled, trying to decide if they were going to start wheezing and barking again or settle down; after a moment the urge to hack passed and he settled back into his pillow. His dad had taken an extra shift at the station because he thought Stiles was going to be at the loft with his friends all night. Stiles hadn't had the heart to tell him he was bailing because he felt like death. He didn't want his dad to give up the extra money he knew they needed, nor did he want him to have to stay home and play nursemaid to his perfectly-capable-of-taking-care-of-himself nineteen-year-old son. So he'd waved goodbye as his dad headed out to work, closed the door behind him, and promptly started coughing until he'd thrown up.

Leaning over the edge of his bed, he snagged the bottle of cough syrup on his nightstand and downed what he guesstimated to be a dose. Or two. He figured if werewolves and darachs and trickster fox spirits hadn't killed him, taking too much medicine should be the least of his worries. Of course, knowing his luck, that would be _exactly_ how he shuffled off this mortal coil. "He survived a Nogitsune, but a double dose of Robitussin was too much for his body to handle."

Making a face as he capped the bottle and dropped it back onto the nightstand, he snuggled under his blankets and figured he might as well take advantage of the nighttime properties and get some sleep. It wasn't like his exhausted body couldn't use an extra couple hours of rest. Hopefully his mind would turn off long enough to let him fall victim to his pillow's siren song.

When he woke two hours later, it was dark outside and his house was deathly quiet. It wasn't the first time he'd woken in such a situation, but it unnerved him more when he was sick. Fortunately he felt somewhat better; the medicine must have actually done some good while he rested. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he pulled himself into a sitting position and sat for a moment, trying to build up the strength to haul himself out of the bed.

A flicker of movement in the shadows had him reacting violently, his overworked lungs protesting until he began coughing just as violently. A hand came down on his back, whacking at it a few times, until Stiles finally expelled the last little tickle and was able to sit up straight. Mostly.

"Derek?" he croaked.

The lamp clicked on and Derek stood there, arms crossed over his chest in an imitation of a stern position, although the sheepish look on his face counteracted it. "Scott said you were out for tonight. I thought I'd check on you."

"Great, my own private werewolf nanny," he sassed, and Derek rolled his eyes and headed for the window. "Wait, sorry. You know me and sarcasm. It's my native tongue, I revert to it in times of stress."

"You must be stressed all the time," Derek shot back dryly, and Stiles snorted.

"Really, though, what are you doing here? I thought you'd want to be at the party, living it up with the pack."

Derek stared at him, his expression deadpan. "You thought _I_ would want to be at a party?"

Stiles considered it, scratching at the back of his neck. "Okay, no, not exactly. But it's at your loft. Why would you have volunteered your place for it if you didn't want to be there?"

More staring. " _I_ didn't volunteer it."

Sterek puzzled at the annoyance in the tone, trying to remember how the loft had been designated as the location in the first place. Honestly, probably the way it had most times. "Hey, Derek has the biggest place that can fit the most people. Let's go there!"

Rolling his eyes, Derek huffed out an exasperated breath. "Lydia brought up the idea of the party. You started verbally decorating the loft, deciding where to put the tree and the lights and that hideous plastic Frosty. Within two minutes the entire pack was planning it there."

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry?"

Ignoring the half-hearted apology, Derek settled onto a spot on the floor by the window, leaning against the wall and pulling a book out of his back pocket. "Wait, so you're just going to sit there and not talk to me now, after coming over to 'check on me'?" Stiles protested, and Derek smirked at him.

"I used you as an excuse to get out of there. Scott felt guilty for leaving you here by yourself. Volunteering to look in on you got me a free pass without anyone trying to make me feel like an ass for ditching my 'own' party." He lifted the book and began reading, his eyes flickering back and forth rapidly as they consumed the words in front of him.

Stiles watched him for a few moments, mesmerized by how he'd instantly become lost in the text. It took several minutes of silence before he realized Derek was sitting on the floor, which had to be hard and uncomfortable.. "Dude, you don't have to sit on the floor," he blurted suddenly, floundering when Derek looked up at him curiously. "I mean, you can sit here on the bed. It's softer, and warm." A smile played at the edges of Derek's mouth and Stiles realized what he'd said, flushing instantly. "Not that I want you to sit here, on the bed, next to me! I just thought you might like a softer seat!"

Derek snorted. "Right."

Stiles made a face. "Please, you'd be lucky to have a shot at all this, don't think I don't realize what this whole 'checking in' thing is about," he babbled, gesturing at himself while simultaneously thinking, _Oh God, oh God, shut up, shut_ up _Stiles!_ To further his humiliation, he began hacking and coughing, choking on the phlegm he dislodged.

Green-gold eyes skimmed over him in wry amusement. "Yeah. That's it."

Mortified, Stiles tried to hide that he had to lean over his bed to spit into the pile of tissues in his trash can. "Can we just blame this on fever-induced temporary insanity?" he suggested weakly, and Derek smirked.

"You don't have a fever. You're congested and feel like shit, but you're not out of your mind. Not any more than usual, anyway. Nice try, Stilinski."

"Is there any chance we can pretend I didn't just make an ass out of myself?"

Derek let out a full-blown laugh, and Stiles blinked. He hadn't even known Derek actually knew _how_ to laugh. "Stiles. You make an ass out of yourself pretty much every day. Multiple times. Why should now be any different?"

"Because most of the time it's garden-variety ass-making," Stiles retorted, coloring slightly as he added, "I've never actually hit on you before."

Derek pursed his lips, clearly trying to fight back a chuckle. "Technically you _didn't_ hit on me," he pointed out. "You implied _I_ wanted to hit on _you_."

"Yeeeahhhhh, let's forget all about that."

He was quiet for a moment, and Stiles began to relax, thinking maybe he was going to be kind for once and let it slide. "What if I don't want to 'forget all about that'?"

Or not.

"Listen, Derek, I know you can totally be an ass, but you're not usually a jerk. Are you just so hard-up for getting your kicks that you have to torture me?" Stiles asked with a pained sigh.

"What makes you think I'm torturing you?" he responded easily.

He heaved an annoyed sigh and rolled his eyes so hard he kind of expected them to pop out of his skull. "Because otherwise you'd be a gentleman, forget I opened my big stupid mouth, and go back to reading whatever that book is and ignoring me."

Derek cocked his head, studying Stiles as he braced his forearms against his knees, the aforementioned book dangling loosely from his fingers. "Stiles. You're too smart to be playing stupid."

Stiles gaped at him. "Uh. What?"

His mouth twitched as he fought a losing battle against the slight smile that crept onto his lips. "Haven't you noticed you're the only one freaking out about your inadvertent come-on?"

Opening his mouth to argue, Stiles paused as the realization hit that Derek was right. "Wait. You're not freaking out."

"Nope."

"Why are you not freaking out?" Stiles shifted on the bed, watching Derek curiously. "Because you should totally be freaking out."

He shrugged. "Because I knew a long time ago you were interested. I was just waiting for _you_ to figure it out."

"Wait. What?"

Derek sighed. "Your body chemistry doesn't lie. Your brain, however, does. At least it does to you."

A flush crept up Stiles' neck, spilling onto his cheeks. "So you were waiting for me to figure out what you already knew?"

His grin deepened. "Why do you think I was always slamming you up against things?"

"I figured you just liked causing me pain," Stiles muttered, then winced. "That's not, like, a kink of yours or anything, is it?"

Derek smirked, his eyes lighting in fond amusement. "No, Stiles. I was trying to shake some sense into you because you were so damn stubborn and you frustrated the hell out of me."

"Well. This has certainly been enlightening." Stiles flopped back onto his bed, and he was so lost in thought that when Derek eased onto the bed beside him, he bolted straight up in shock. "What are you doing?"

Derek leaned in, smoothing a hand over his hair until his hand settled on the back of Stiles' neck, his thumb stroking the soft skin lightly. Stiles sighed, his eyes drifting closed as he sank backward into the gentle touch. "I'm helping."

And he was. Stiles felt the ache in his body being drawn upward and out the back of his neck, until he felt boneless and jiggly, like gelatin. "That… That's freaking amazing," he moaned, and he felt rather than heard Derek's pained intake of breath. When he re-opened his eyes, Derek's lips were so close to his that it would only take the barest movement for him to close the distance between them.

Before he could, Derek pulled back. "Not tonight," he murmured, and his tone was almost… regretful? Before Stiles could puzzle that out, the wolf continued. "I might not be able to get sick, but kissing someone who is tastes pretty gross. Not that I wouldn't do it, but I'd prefer that our first one doesn't taste like phlegm and cough syrup."

His head swam. Derek was talking about kissing him. Their _first kiss_. "I'm hallucinating," he muttered. "I'm still asleep because the cold medicine kicked my ass, and I'm dreaming."

"If you were, you'd still be dreaming about me," Derek pointed out with a smirk. "Maybe that should tell you something."

Stiles stared at him. "I'm not dreaming, am I?" Derek shook his head. "Okayyyyy. Then if you're not going to, uh, kiss me" and here he blushed, "maybe you could lay down with me?"

"That I can do." Derek pulled out his phone and typed out a quick message, then slid it back in his pocket. He glanced up, catching Stiles' quizzical expression. "I just told Scott you're not doing well, so I'm going to stay until your dad gets home."

"Good call." Stiles flopped down onto the bed, his head buried in his pillow, and felt Derek ease down behind him. One muscled arm wrapped around his waist and tugged, pulling him flush against Derek's chest, and his own chest seized. It took a moment to realize he wasn't about to burst into another coughing fit, and instead that the reaction was from Derek's body being curled around his own. "Oh. Wow."

"Go to sleep, Stiles," Derek murmured, his breath caressing Stiles' ear, and yeah. Right. Like he was going to be able to sleep after _that._ "I'll be here when you wake up."

"Merry Christmas to us, huh?"

"Something like that," he chuckled. "Good night, Stiles."

"Night, Sourwolf."

There was a beat of silence, and Stiles was almost asleep when Derek muttered, "We _really_ need to work on a new nickname." Stiles huffed out a soft laugh, and he could feel Derek smiling against his neck as his eyes closed, and he drifted off.


End file.
